


Dog Rose

by wrabbit



Series: Floriography [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Biting, Burning with Cigarettes, Cigarettes, Dom/sub, Handcuffs, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Rope Bondage, Sexting, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-20
Updated: 2014-01-20
Packaged: 2018-01-09 10:17:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1144795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrabbit/pseuds/wrabbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>I want you to use the rope again. I want it to hurt.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dog Rose

**Author's Note:**

> Betaed (and much improved!) by thirdbird.

Greg's footsteps slowed on his way to the station and he lingered at the intersection that would take him up to 221. It had been a month since Greg last had the misfortune of needing to call Sherlock in on a case, not that he hadn't seen him during that time, but any amount of peace from the creativity of London's criminals was a blessing, and Sherlock's abrasive personality was less infuriating when Greg wasn't relying on him to keep to the course of the law.

Because he had spoken to him three days prior, Greg knew that John was out of town and that Sherlock was home alone at Baker Street. He recalled the last text message from John from memory: _Almost looking forward to a weekend with Harry._

It probably didn't mean anything at all except that Sherlock was bored and driving John away with his impossible behavior. It certainly didn't imply that Sherlock needed Greg to drop in on him. Greg's feet made a decision before he could make up his mind and turned north on Baker Street, marching around strollers and shopping bags at a quick pace. Unable to justify his actions to himself, Greg shrugged and put it down to boredom. It was a Saturday afternoon in May and he was taking a walk under a beautiful blue sky until he had to go home and hoover his floors before his daughter came to visit.

He didn't text Sherlock to warn him he was coming. He was pleased whenever he could turn the tables on the man the way he insisted on so often surprising Greg with his presence at a crime scene, or in his office, or wherever else he had stalked Greg. And Sherlock, when he eased open the unlocked door, definitely looked surprised -- before he toppled backwards from the headstand he had been doing against the door. He broke the landing with his feet before falling back onto the floor in front of Greg. 

Greg cocked his head, looking down at Sherlock, gasping for air and bright red in the face, before stepping over and around to get inside. 221B was a mess, pillows flown from every piece of furniture all around the floor, books pulled off the shelves. He would have described it as what a living room would look like after a toddler with a three meter reach tore through it, but on second glance nothing was broken or damaged, just in disarray.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock demanded. He sprung to his feet in one smooth movement, then overbalanced and caught himself from falling back on the floor with a hand on the coffee table.

"What were you doing?" Greg countered. "Didn't you hear me coming?" He picked his way through the debris to the armchairs.

"Mind palace." Sherlock tried to take a step, then bent at the waist and held his head in one hand.

"Sherlock! Sit down before you fall down."

"I'm fine!" Sherlock barked, but he groaned and groped across the floor for his chair, falling back into it when he found it with one hand. He put his head between his knees and threaded his fingers in his hair.

Greg furrowed his eyebrows in exasperation. "Helpless," he commented.

"Fuck off."

"No." Greg smiled a bit. He looked around the room again and saw it in a different light. "Did you find what you were looking for?"

Sherlock shook his head between his hands.

"Cigarettes, or something stronger?"

Sherlock looked up at that, annoyed and glaring at Greg's knees. He said, gritting his teeth in irritation, "If drugs were what I wanted I could get them. Not even you could stop me."

"What, then?"

Sherlock only glowered at him in reply, taking in Greg's appearance in a glance, and stood up. His eyes were puffy and his cheeks were still pink from his inverted nap against the door. "What day is it?" he asked, going into the kitchen.

"Really?" Greg asked, then answered the question at Sherlock's silent stare. "It's Saturday."

A cabinet door banged closed and Greg stood up, curious to watch whatever was happening. He couldn't help himself looking in the sink and comforting his rustling concern to see there were several plates and bowls piled there, suggesting to him that Sherlock had been eating since the Wednesday night John left for his long weekend away. Greg put his hands in his pockets to keep himself from fidgeting with the chemistry equipment on the counter while Sherlock started the kettle boiling.

"Any cases since John's been gone?"

"No."

"Experiments?" Greg carried on reluctantly, examining the clean hamster maze of tubes and beakers as Sherlock filled two mugs.

Sherlock sighed. He slid an Olympic souvenir mug down the counter and lifted the other in one hand, cupping his palm around the outside curve of the steaming mug. 

"I've, um--," he gestured with the mug to the kitchen table where there was a neat pile of books and papers, "--research."

"Ah." Greg picked up one of the volumes on the top. "The language of flowers?" he asked, reading the title.

"Floriography," Sherlock corrected. "A 19th century method of cryptological communication using plants."

"Got a lover you need to send some secret messages to?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pulled the sodden teabag of out of mug before dropping it in the sink and shaking the hot tea off his fingers. Pouring in milk to the edge of the rim, he said, "John suggested it."

Greg fished the teabag out of his own mug as Sherlock glided past him into the other room and dropped it in the sink on top of a small pile of used teabags. He put the milk away and followed Sherlock into the sitting room.

Sat in his chair in a grey t-shirt and pyjama bottoms, Sherlock watched Greg over his mug. Greg took John's empty chair, awkwardly balancing the full mug in one hand and trying to smile amiably.

Sherlock continued to stare at Greg when after a few moments Greg let his gaze slip away to the window. It was nice, oddly, to sit in silence with Sherlock. He had almost forgotten what it was like to just sit with him for a while in whatever dingy flat he was camped out in for the season, sometimes over takeaway, sometimes tea, a cigarette, a nicotine patch, even a cold case. Most of the time they didn't have much to say; Sherlock only spoke at length if it concerned his work. Although Sherlock had made a hobby of embarrassing Greg with deductions about himself, for the most part his lack of interest in Greg's quotidian life was matched by Greg's even lesser desire to talk about himself. It was very good and welcome to have John to chat with, also, and to witness the way Sherlock was drawn out by him, but it had been a while since Greg had spent any time with Sherlock just like this.

Sherlock shifted while Greg was thinking, stretching his legs out in front of him as he sunk into the chair. The mug beside him had barely been touched. Sherlock levered himself up when Greg was halfway through his tea and disappeared into his bedroom. He returned with a pair of cuffs dangling from one hand, stopping beside Greg on the way to his chair to hold them out.

Only fully realising that he had been missing them in that moment, Greg took the cuffs and the keys Sherlock dropped into his palm and folded them together in one hand while Sherlock returned to his seat and drank from his lukewarm mug. "Thanks," he said, bemused. It had been a few months since Sherlock had last called him during a crash, after a long hiatus, and Greg had left his cuffs behind, tangled somewhere in the bedsheets when he had collected his things to go early the next morning.

Greg wasn't sure what to do with them now that he had them out of context like this. He couldn't remember a time when he and Sherlock had ever discussed what Greg did for him, except in those moments when Sherlock requested it in so many words.

Greg shifted lower in his seat so he could slide the cuffs into his pocket. Sherlock sat back down.

"Would you ever want to--," he started to say, not quite looking at Greg. At the same time Greg said, "I thought I left--"

"Do I what?" Greg said in the impasse that followed.

"Nothing," Sherlock dismissed him. He sipped from his mug, gaze concentrated somewhere at the level of Greg's shoulder, piquing Greg's curiosity in whatever had him unable to meet Greg’s eyes.

"What do _you_ want?" Greg asked, touching the line of the cuffs in his pocket.

Sherlock took a shallow breath to speak and held it in thought for several seconds. 

"I'm fine, if that's what you're asking." 

"That's not what I'm asking."

"I'm not some broken doll for you to play with," Sherlock said, with an edge of criticism.

"I know that." Concerned and a tiny bit hurt, Greg picked up his tea, planning to finish it and go.

"I won't roll over for you," Sherlock continued, rubbing a thumbnail.

Greg watched and reconsidered and came to a decision with his gut more than his head. He waited until he had Sherlock's attention again. "It doesn't have to be like that," he said meaningfully. Sherlock's fingers rose to steeple in front of his lips. 

Greg put together the evidence. Sherlock was embarrassed. Very few topics embarrassed Sherlock. Sherlock actually wanted something from Greg involving cuffs. Recreationally. Greg wasn't used to thinking about their activities as something that he did for anyone's enjoyment, but this wasn't the same. This was new.

He wondered what was going through Sherlock’s head that made him dare to risk their agreement on Greg's latent attraction to Sherlock, and his willingness to act on it under the right, hypothetical circumstances. 

Surely he knew that sex had never entered into Greg's motivations before. He had been honoured and concerned and it was even gratifying in a way to be the one Sherlock trusted, but nothing about Sherlock suffering through acute attacks of manic insomnia appeared anywhere in Greg's personal definition of the erotic. He hoped he was a good enough man that he wouldn't ever have allowed the situation to continue, if there had been something sexual about it on his side. Sherlock had certainly never shown any signs of arousal. 

Although, Greg couldn't say he was surprised at all that Sherlock's inclinations leaned that way; a man who needed to be bound a bit to relax wasn't a man who was unfamiliar with the concept.

Sherlock stared at Greg for a few long seconds, before he reached down the back of his chair, pulled out a pack of cigarettes and tossed it across the gap. Greg caught it in his lap with both hands. 

He stood. "One rule," he said.

"What?"

"You've got to tell me exactly what you want."

Sherlock's eyes widened a fraction. He didn’t seem to know what to say.

"Well?" Greg prompted him, enjoying the surprising gift of Sherlock’s speechlessness. He finished his cold tea in two gulps.

"Is that the way it is?" Greg said. He suppressed a grin at the embarrassed, annoyed shadow that crossed Sherlock's face. "Okay. You text me."

Greg dropped the cigarettes on the seat of John's chair and was out the door before he knew precisely what he was doing, surprised to realise his pulse was racing. He expected to be shouted at to stop, or physically run down before he could make it to the door, but Sherlock didn't make a peep as Greg skipped down the stairs and out onto the street, grinning into the sun that blinded him.

Greg took a shuddering breath and walked at a quick pace around the corner, where he laughed in the middle of the street, catching the attention of several passers-by on his way to the station. Fingers clenched around the cuffs in his pocket, Greg carried on, half expecting Sherlock to give chase after him at any moment, and walked faster than he would have normally. He felt somewhat like he'd just gotten away with something impertinent that Sherlock wasn't likely to immediately forgive him for. It was thrilling.

He managed to set the issue to the side during dinner with his daughter and her friend until he was finishing the dishes and his mobile caught his eye on the counter. He had one text. It was from Sherlock.

_I want you to use the rope again. I want it to hurt._

Greg swallowed and read the sentences twice over while his vision swam. At least he still couldn't say he was surprised.

 _Hurt with what?_ he texted back immediately, and put the phone down to open a beer. His phone chimed before he had swallowed the first cold pull.

_Start with your hands. I have a riding crop._

Greg groaned and laid down on his couch, resting the beer bottle over his sternum and drawing the attention of his cat, Captain, who jumped on his legs. He sighed, rubbed his eyelids with his chilled fingers. He wasn't aroused yet, but the images Sherlock was putting in his head, however vague, were making his heart race. 

He seemed to remember something about Sherlock using a riding crop to replicate a post-mortem bruise pattern. He texted back, _Not the dead bodies one._

_That was ages ago._

Greg narrowed his eyes at his phone and dropped it deliberately on the couch in reply before gently shooing Captain down so that he could stand up and get a glass of ice water. He leaned against the fridge, drinking it slowly and staring mindlessly at a postcard from his sister while his thoughts wandered. He levered himself up when his phone chimed again. 

_Well?_ it said.

Huffing once in amusement, Greg rubbed his cheek with one hand. He asked the question of himself, petting Captain when he meowed and jumped back on the couch beside Greg and pressed into his side, tail twitching. Greg picked up his beer and leaned back to give the cat leave to sprawl over his lap.

He finished his beer, felt resolution settle quietly in his stomach, and texted back an affirmative without a second thought.

He got an answer the next afternoon. _When?_

Greg sighed. He didn't have a day and night off until the next Sunday, but he needed that long to adjust.

_Sunday?_

_Thursday night. You don't have another shift until Friday afternoon._

Yes, Greg thought, but before that he had a double shift on Thursday he wasn't much looking forward to. _Sunday_ , he replied, hoping that would be all.

It wasn't all. On Thursday afternoon, Greg was in the middle of the afternoon gauntlet when he received two texts. His phone was on silent and he didn't immediately know they were from Sherlock when he mechanically opened the first message and started reading.

_Are you so sure you could put me face down with my arms tied behind my back if I resisted?_

And,

_Don't worry. I know the thought never crossed your mind._

Greg laughed first at the daring of the message, then at the idea of Sherlock sexting him, and then he wasn't sure what to think as the idea planted itself warm and twitching in his stomach. _It really didn't_ , he replied to the second text, and, after further thought, _Yes_ , he replied to the first.

_I'd be vulnerable to whatever you wanted to do to me._

Greg grimaced slightly in embarrassment and annoyance. "Sherlock," he complained out loud.

But he texted back, _I suppose I'd have to punish you for resisting._

_I suppose you would._

Greg turned his phone off before it could get any more out of hand and leaned back in his chair for a moment, gazing out over the paperwork he had to chip through on his desk, the emails and databases open on his monitor. He sighed. "Bastard."

Greg woke up nervous when Sunday burned bright and clear. By the time he finished his first cup of coffee he had almost ten hours to kill before he had arranged to meet Sherlock and he still had no idea how to do whatever it was Sherlock was expecting him to do that night. After lunch with his daughter and nephew, he read up on knots -- it had been ages since he had actually used rope to tie a person -- and played with the rope with Captain swiping at the tail ends until he felt confident that he wouldn't hurt either of them.

He was eating a sandwich and salad for dinner alone on his couch with his laptop open in front of him when Sherlock texted him again.

 _John's out_ , was all it read.

He didn't reply, planning to get ready and arrive when they had agreed he would. He picked through the rest of his dinner, trying to relax and focus on the articles he had been trying to read before abruptly standing up in the middle of a paragraph and deciding he could be early.

The sun was still up when Greg got to 221B. Greg could feel the anxiety he had built up about that night turning into a more focused kind of anticipation as he climbed the steps. Sherlock opened the door and quirked a smile at him.

"Come in," he said before turning and returning to the armchairs where the tea had been set on a small table between. The pot was steaming even though Greg was an hour early.

"This is nice," he commented, shedding his coat and coming closer while Sherlock poured the tea.

"Impatient, Lestrade?" Sherlock asked him, glancing up at Greg, who was still holding his bag in one hand and unconsciously scanning the neatened room as if he expected something alarming, like the riding crop, to pop out at him.

"Not at all," Greg dropped his bag on the floor by the chair. He sat down and took the teacup and saucer that Sherlock handed to him, returning the shadow of a smile that crossed Sherlock's face. This was normal. This was good.

"Where's your flatmate?" Greg asked him after they had both sipped from their cups.

Sherlock leaned back and crossed his legs, his bare foot brushing the edge of the table. He was wearing a white shirt tucked into dark grey trousers and Greg was relieved again by the normalcy of it.

"Work."

Silent minutes passed during which they sipped tea and stared at each other and Greg decided he had to jump in before he exploded. "Safeword?"

"Red," Sherlock answered without even blinking.

"Er, limits?" Greg continued.

"Perhaps later."

"Alright," Greg allowed reluctantly.

Nervousness was buzzing in his veins, more like a nicotine craving than excitement. Greg's cup clinked against the saucer as he set both down and stood up, rounding the table in two steps to thread his fingers through Sherlock's hair and push it away from his challenging eyes.

"Want to be put face down, do you?" he asked.

"If you think you can manage it."

"Let's see, shall we?" 

Greg smiled and placed a knee between Sherlock's thighs on the chair. He leaned down close until they could have balanced a marble between their lips, examining Sherlock's eyes for consent all the while. 

When there was only a breath between them and Sherlock’s gaze had softened and dropped to Greg’s lips, Greg hauled him out of his chair by his arm and shirt front. He bore Sherlock to the floor with the advantage of leverage, one hand on the back of the other man's head to protect his skull from the impact.

"I have a bedroom," Sherlock wheezed.

Appraising the cleanliness of the carpet, Greg smiled and said, "Here's good."

He managed to untuck Sherlock's shirt before he was turned onto his back. Sherlock was suddenly looking down at him, his hands braced above Greg's shoulders on the floor with Greg’s legs wrapped around his waist. Sherlock's eyes lowered and he swayed forward to take a kiss. Greg tipped his chin up in invitation, almost allowing it before he swiftly tugged the tails of the shirt up Sherlock's body, turning it inside out over the back of Sherlock’s head. Greg grinned at Sherlock and his confused noise of outrage and he flipped them again, laughing as he pinned Sherlock's arms above his head with the material tangled around his face and arms. He helped Sherlock free his face once Greg had him on the floor beneath him.

His bag was just in reach. If he could just -- Greg reached with an arm and a leg and toppled, Sherlock's leg wrapping around his hip and turning them onto their sides. Sherlock’s wrists were still trapped in his shirt cuffs between their chests and Greg wrapped his hands around them before he could start to untangle himself.

"Lestrade," he growled irritably, fighting to get his arms free and still prevent Greg from reaching the bag.

Twisting the material of the shirt around his own fist, Greg strained himself to reach into his bag and pull out the speedcuffs in the open front pocket. He grinned when his palm closed around the grip and snapped one side expertly around Sherlock's forearm under the shirt cuff before he could react.

"Not fair," Sherlock panted as his second wrist was locked in. He rolled off without a fight when Greg pushed him gently by the shoulder. "Misappropriation of police property."

Getting up on one knee, Greg said, "Thought you'd be difficult." 

He stared down at Sherlock on his back beside him, bare chested and flushed with exertion, his hair a mess, shirt still tangled around his hands. Sherlock looked up at him a bit warily, apparently curious what Greg would do now that he had momentarily defeated him. Greg cleared his throat. "Roll over. On your belly."

Sherlock raised his elbows reluctantly and rolled, turning his face against the tattered red carpet between his arms when Greg pressed him down with a hand on his back and straddled him. Greg brushed the palm of his hand down the warm skin that stretched from the black hair curling over his neck to where his trousers hugged his hips, a pale canvas for a sparse starfield of moles and the odd scar. Sherlock's muscles flexed as he adjusted to the sensation.

Greg sighed and squeezed his thighs around Sherlock's hips before reaching over for his bag. He pulled out the half empty pack of cigarettes tucked in the pocket and tapped one out.

Sherlock rose on his elbows. He twisted his neck to look at Greg over his shoulder with incredulity as Greg lit the cigarette he held in his mouth, pulling flame into it from the lighter. 

"Seriously?"

"Shut up," Greg said automatically. He pushed Sherlock down again easily with a hand between his shoulderblades. 

Sherlock huffed in disappointment as he slid from his elbows to the floor. Dismissing Greg from his list of concerns for the moment, he moved on the carpet and focused on unbuttoning his shirt cuffs. 

Luckily, Greg knew how to get his attention. "Sherlock," he said, observing him squirm.

Sherlock glanced back at him, still fussing with buttons. "What?"

"Hold still."

"Why?" he complained.

"Or you'll burn yourself," Greg suggested. He tapped the loose ash from the cigarette on the floor, took a drag and pressed Sherlock's cheek into the floor with a hand on the back of his neck. Taking the cigarette from between his lips with his free hand, he slowly lowered the glowing tip to the skin of Sherlock's back.

Sherlock's muscles tensed to fight when he realised what was about to happen and Greg pressed down harder to make sure he held still while he just barely brushed the lit edge of the cigarette at a swift angle down Sherlock's pale back, shoulder to ribcage. Sherlock hissed and his fingers scrabbled against the floor, his shoulder blades straining.

Greg had burnt himself often enough that he thought he could be safe about it and he hummed in satisfaction at the light pink line that bloomed in the trail of the cigarette. He didn't miss the matching blush that crossed Sherlock's neck and face. "Alright?" Greg commented, half question and half observation.

He took his hand off Sherlock's neck and touched the ember to his ribcage for just a moment when Sherlock didn’t answer whether agreement or objection. Sherlock flinched away, a surprised sound escaping him.

"Stop moving," Greg told him. He continued to take drags off the cigarette, scratching his nails down Sherlock's bare back and brushing the burning ember against him whenever he squirmed or flinched away from Greg's hand, careful not to make contact long enough to bring up a blister or do more than redden the skin.

Irritation at the pettiness of the chastising touches shifted into perplexity on Sherlock's face as he consistently tried and failed to not react to the light, glancing grazes. 

"Greg?" Sherlock panted as he tried to lie still and keep an eye on Greg's movements over his shoulder at the same time.

Greg rubbed gently over the scattered burn marks, soothing and irritating the sensitive skin with his fingertips until Sherlock finally collapsed on an exhale and groaned into the carpet. He cursed when Greg drew a final line with the last of the ember, his thumb brushing one of the red spots over Sherlock's ribcage.

Greg exhaled shakily and looked down at the whole of Sherlock’s back. He was littered with cigarette ash, sweating and red and spotted and streaked with careful cigarette burns. One wrist was still trapped in his shirt.

Greg moved on his knees until he could undo the last button, pull the shirt off at last and throw it to the side. From there it was an easy slide down to taste Sherlock's skin over his left shoulder. "You okay?"

Sherlock grunted, shoulderblade pushing into Greg's tongue and tasting of salt and ash. Greg dragged his tongue and teeth along the point and slid a hand down Sherlock’s side as Sherlock shifted off his belly, sliding a knee up.

The few doubts that remained in his mind faded as Greg felt Sherlock’s growing erection. He parted himself from Sherlock's back long enough to say, "I believe you asked for rope. And my hands." 

"Yes," Sherlock ground out and pushed into Greg's palm.

"How? Don't tell me you want a spanking," he couldn't help but say, knowing otherwise.

Sherlock made a small sound, squirming between the mouth that was teasing a burn mark under his shoulderblade, and the fingers that were tracing the hard line of his cock through his trousers. "You know what I want," he said.

Greg rubbed his nose and cheek against Sherlock's skin. "No, I want to hear you say it."

Sherlock pressed his forehead against the floor and he rose a few inches on his knees and elbows, hips seeking pressure from Greg's hand. 

"Spank me, then."

"Alright." 

Greg pulled back and urged Sherlock up with his hands on his hips until he was sitting on his heels and Greg was wrapping his arms around him to unlock the cuffs with the key from his pocket, the tip of Sherlock's nose just brushing his cheek. As soon as the links fell free Sherlock twisted sinuously, arm wrapping around Greg's back. Greg let their lips slot together at last. It was intuitive synchronization, effortless to turn his head and cover Sherlock's burning lips with his own, as if he'd done it a hundred times before. And then Sherlock opened his mouth and bit down on Greg's bottom lip.

"Ow," Greg mumbled into Sherlock and he pulled away, putting an inch between his throbbing lip and Sherlock's lush mouth, the incisors that were suddenly scraping down Greg's jaw. Greg tipped his neck back and stroked Sherlock's bare shoulders while he unbuttoned Greg's shirt with quick hands and kissed and licked and bit at Greg’s neck in a way that made him want to push Sherlock back down again. "Ouch!" He twisted his neck away when Sherlock nipped the skin sharply over his stretching tendon.

Sherlock had finished with his shirt and was feeling up Greg's chest and ribs under the his vest with his free hands. Rubbing his neck warily, Greg leaned back and asked him, "Are you ready?"

"Yes." Sherlock's eyes were bright with anticipation, never a particularly good sign in Greg's experience.

"Over there. Over the chair."

Out of the corner of his eye he watched Sherlock dropping the cushion from John's chair onto the floor, standing up to noisily drag the table with their cold tea out of the way and push the chairs further apart until he was satisfied. Greg pulled the sand-coloured jute rope out of his bag, making sure it wasn't tangled before getting up. The sun had fallen behind the buildings outside and the circle of the chairs was lit only by the tall lamp behind Sherlock's chair and the slanted light cast from the kitchen. Greg edged around John's chair to click on the smaller lamp on the side table there, lighting Sherlock from behind when he finally knelt in front of his own armchair on John’s pillow.

Greg had prepared a few prusik knots that he could adjust quickly as well as the speedcuffs, uncertain how much Sherlock would expect him to fight for it, but Sherlock was waiting patiently enough for him to prepare, marked back facing Greg as he made himself comfortable on the cushion. Greg pulled out the prusik knot cuffs and approached, kneeling down with his hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

"Hold still." He looped one side of the knot around the first wrist that Sherlock presented to him, then pulled the other around to the small of his back and through the other side. He tightened each side until Sherlock's wrists were each held by a single loop of rope with two long tails running out of the knot in the centre. Holding onto the ends, Greg guided Sherlock to bend over the chair with a hand on his shoulder and neck. He swallowed a curl of desire at the image of Sherlock bending under his hand until his chest was touching the leather surface of the seat, shifting on his knees to get comfortable. Greg imagined him squirming in pleasure at Greg’s appraisal the way he could do when John effused over his brilliance. He caught Sherlock glancing at him over his shoulder, his eyes reflecting the lamplight.

"That's good," Greg offered in a rough voice and observed Sherlock shifting from knee to knee again like a cat in heat. He was still wearing his trousers. Greg remembered he needed to finish with the rope before he could take them off.

"Okay. Just keep it right there," he said, and held Sherlock's upturned wrists in the center of his back with one hand while he measured the distance to the vertical railing of the chair with one of the rope tails, letting go of Sherlock to anchor the rope there. He did the same with the left tail on the left pole and watched Sherlock explore the field of motion left between the ropes tied on each side to the chair. He could jerk the rope to slide up and down the rails of the chair a tiny bit, and no more than couple inches to either side. When Sherlock was done Greg tested the slack left between his wrists and the rope. He unknotted one of the anchors and tied it a little tighter so that the left side was even with the right.

Sherlock's fingers clenched and relaxed. He twitched, squirming when Greg's palm stroked over his raised backside. The dip of his lumbar spine was shining under the lamp and Greg wondered if he was nervous. He leaned closer, pressed his groin right against's Sherlock's thigh and started unbuttoning Sherlock's trousers, pulling the zip down and reaching inside to stroke him through the thin cotton barrier of his underwear. Sherlock made a soft sound like he'd been struck and tried to spread his knees further on the small pillow, his fingers curling, trying to give Greg more access to feel out the shape of his genitals.

Greg was occupied in kissing one of the pink burns on Sherlock's lower back again when the doorbell rang in the downstairs hallway. He paused, lips touching skin, Sherlock's warm erection cupped in one palm, and listened to a door open. 

"Mrs Hudson will get it," Sherlock said irritably. "She's trying out a bridge group. It won't last."

"Sherlock...," Greg started, expecting to hear a party of jabbering card players flood the hallway but then the sounds of Mrs Hudson locking her door and leaving could be heard clearly from the sitting room, all silent except for Sherlock's rustling aura of impatience. Greg breathed out in relief and lifted his head. When Greg removed his hand from his trousers Sherlock pushed back against him and groaned, twisting his wrists in the ropes.

"Come on, I've been ready," he complained and jumped, jerking to one side when Greg slapped him hard across one buttock to relieve the tension.

"Have you?" Greg asked him. 

Sherlock let out the surprised breath he had stolen, but didn't complain. His cheek fell back to the leather seat as Greg moved back and started working Sherlock's trousers and pants off his hips, slowly pulling them back from his butt and thighs, dragging Greg's attention down skin and more skin until they were hobbling his knees at the pillow.

Surprised sounds escaped Sherlock as Greg touched him palm to skin over his naked arse and down to feel the hot skin of his hanging ballsack and grip his erection in a brief hello before stroking up the extent of his pubic hair and squeezing his hip.

"Alright?" Greg asked, moving to the side so that he could press his hand against the soft curve where arse met thigh.

Sherlock looked back at him while he stroked the downy hair there, fingertips curving into the cleft. "Should we wait until Mrs Hudson gets back?"

Greg continued stroking, perfectly fascinated by the arse presented in front of him, and deliberately didn't respond even when Sherlock shifted his shoulders in frustration.

Sherlock scoffed. "Oh, _fine_. Please, spank me already."

Greg smiled at him and raised his hand. He slapped him less swiftly and spontaneously than the first time, uncertain how to gauge the right speed and force.

"Harder."

Greg placed a hand on Sherlock's hip and put some effort into it, a solid crack that caused Sherlock's lower body to flinch forward. Sherlock huffed out a breath and slowly loosened the fists he had formed. "Yes," he said, and swallowed. "Go."

Greg went. After the first dozen or so experimental slaps he felt himself getting into it. His awareness began to contract, his attention grow until eventually both spanned the length of Sherlock's body: Sherlock’s eyes staring inward, the red crossing his cheeks, his mouth releasing guttural noises of approval and the rate of his breaths and gasps against the cushion. His shoulders stiffening and relaxing, his fingers and toes twitching and flexing in the air, his hips tipping up to accept Greg's hand. All of him responded to Greg's rhythm and force, aim and pattern. Greg watched for every twitch and unsteady gasp, trying to keep in sync with developments that caused Sherlock's shoulders to relax and his lumbar spine to dip, his eyelids to flutter.

Greg's hand grew warm, then it stung, then it began to hurt with an ache that throbbed dully up the entire arm. He stopped without consciously planning to after a hard strike to the left cheek and Sherlock's hips stuttered forward, rising beyond the force of the slap to press his erection against the seat cushion. His fingers curled around the rope, eyelids shut tightly as he struggled to get the right angle and leverage. "More," Sherlock demanded, "Close."

Greg wiped the sweat off his brow and gave him more until Sherlock came with a shuddering, bowstring-tight curl against the cushion, fighting the rope as he pushed bodily and trembling into the chair.

"Oh," Greg commented, riveted.

He petted down the back of Sherlock's arm as Sherlock reached ground in stages with several sharp gasps. He kept petting him while they caught their breath and Greg stared at the splotchy pink of Sherlock's backside, radiating heat where Greg touched him.

"Are you going to untie me?"

"Yeah," Greg answered, momentarily startled. "Yeah." He reached for the knot tied to the closest rail and tried to loosen it with one numb, tingling hand and one shaky one. He used his teeth when he couldn't get a grip on the woven strand and quickly moved on to the next one. Sherlock slipped the rope cuffs off himself when he was free of the rails and raised his hands slowly to rest on them on the chair, rolling his shoulders.

Feeling stiff from kneeling for so long, Greg let himself fall back to rest on the arm that still had some strength in it with his legs folded together on the floor. Sherlock eased himself into kneeling position, bent over his forearms on the chair, and then slid to the floor beside Greg, lowering himself to rest with his bare butt on the Union Jack pillow. He wiggled and pushed at his trousers and pants until he could kick them off and sit naked and flushed in front of Greg, who was still dressed except for his open shirt.

"I'll take you up on that bed now," Greg said, wanting off the floor nearly as much as he just wanted to pull Sherlock to himself and wrap himself around him.

Sherlock pushed himself up and walked directly to it without comment. Greg heard him turning on a lamp and got up to follow. The reason he hadn't wanted to carry on in Sherlock's bedroom in the first place returned to him when he saw him there, lying on his side, curled like a comma on the duvet. 

It was an intimate, delicate space in Greg’s mind. Not a place in which Sherlock of the everyday lived and got hard. Certainly not a place where it was appropriate for Greg to get hard. He shed his clothes on the floor and laid down facing Sherlock, feeling sweaty and unclean, but then Sherlock was sliding closer and there was come on his belly and he was bringing Greg's lost erection back with soft caresses.

When he couldn't lie still anymore, Greg took Sherlock's arm and pressed him into the bed on his sore back. He opened his teeth on Sherlock's neck and undulated against him, felt him moan more than heard it.

"You like that, then," Greg said. Rocking against Sherlock's hip, he pressed a line of gentle bites across his shoulder before nipping his collarbone, tangling their legs and pressing as much of him against as much of Sherlock as he could at once.

Sherlock twitched and seemed to growl as Greg bit him. He wrapped his leg around Greg's hip and tried to pull him closer before forcing him onto his side again for more access. Sherlock's hands found their way between their bodies, stroking and pulling Greg’s cock and sliding down to cup his balls.

"Oh, that's good, Sherlock. That's good. Give me more." He fucked into Sherlock's palm and twined his fingers through Sherlock's hair when Sherlock's head lowered to his chest.

"Don't bite," he begged when he felt a graze of sharp teeth. Sherlock's hot breath huffed against his skin and he rubbed his dry lips against a nipple. Greg pushed inelegantly into Sherlock's hand, wanting to come but unable to get there. He closed his hand over Sherlock's, tighter, and adjusted the angle. 

Greg guided Sherlock up to kiss him with his hand still tangled in his hair and urged him to slow down as pleasure began to coalesce into a thick, molten honey boiling in the depths of Greg’s pelvis, filling his abdomen with creeping warmth. He wrapped his leg around Sherlock's thigh and spilled against his hip as it poured over and down his limbs in slow waves, moaning into Sherlock’s mouth.

They weren't quite stuck together after Greg released everything that he was going to. Sherlock was still holding him tightly, mouthing at Greg's neck, one hand squeezing his arse with the other trapped between their bodies. Greg realised Sherlock was hard again and leaking against Greg’s thigh as he pressed closer.

"Okay," Greg assented on a breath. He squeezed the back of Sherlock's neck. "Just give me a second."

He dragged them into the shower with promises of a blow job but refused to kneel any longer once they got there. He checked Sherlock's back for blisters and when he didn't find any, soaped Sherlock from neck to ankle and then pressed him to the wall with his body. He petted and stroked him until the water went cold and he could lay them both down on the bed, clean and aching until they both came again, Sherlock curved sweetly around Greg's head while Greg brought himself off to the sound of Sherlock whining and begging him to suck harder and use his teeth and please make him come again.

He was pulled out of a not-quite doze beside Sherlock's thigh to the distant sound of a door opening downstairs. "Mrs Hudson?" he asked, when Sherlock leaned up on one elbow.

"Nope," Sherlock answered, thoughtfully, and then Greg thought he heard someone climbing the staircase.

"Damn."

There were a couple seconds of silence after the door opened and then John's voice, "Sherlock?" could be heard clearly in the bedroom. Sherlock fell back onto the bed in resignation and didn't reply.

"Greg?" John called out with less certainty.

"Fuck," Greg muttered to himself, then louder, "In here."

Sherlock continued staring at the ceiling as blankly as an angel contemplating the firmament in a religious painting when Greg looked to him for help.

"Oh, hey, Greg. I'll just go on up to my room," John said, footsteps approaching within a few feet of the bedroom door.

Greg rubbed his face in one hand. "Good idea," he said, half to himself. He laid back, wincing, and listened to the muffled sounds of John preparing toast and tea.

Greg pulled himself up, shook off the glow that tried to weigh him back down, and frowned at Sherlock, nude and serene on his back in the middle of the bed with his hair drying in a mess around his head. Sherlock returned his frown with a superior one of his own. 

"You're the one who wanted to have sex out there. It's not my fault you forgot to clean up," he said.

Greg blew out a breath. "Yeah, I know. It's just embarrassing." He looked around for the bag with his kit in it.

"In the sitting room."

"I know." Greg looked down at himself.

"Put your old clothes on," Sherlock told him. His gaze slid back up at the ceiling and shook his head once in aloof condescension.

"Just give me a minute," Greg shot back, annoyed. He sat on the edge of the bed for a few seconds, mentally preparing himself to stand up and get dressed.

Sherlock glanced at him. "Are you staying?"

"I brought stuff to stay," Greg said, looking at the carpet, "but I don't have to." He pushed himself up and started picking through the pile of his discarded clothes.

Sherlock was silent while he pulled on enough clothing to collect his bag, clean up, apologise to John and find some ointment for Sherlock’s back. "You may as well," Sherlock said, watching Greg button his trousers.

Greg looked down at Sherlock's languid body and misleadingly neutral eyes, and didn't push him to ask. "Yeah, I may as well," he agreed. "I'll be right back."


End file.
